


Something to Protect against the Void

by greenstuff



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Hobbits in space, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:13:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8354659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenstuff/pseuds/greenstuff
Summary: The tea in space is terrible, but it’s the company that keeps Bilbo up at night. Thorin Oakenshield is like something out of an old story, untouchable in his stoic perfection. So of course Bilbo would go and fall in love with him. Too bad to Thorin he will never be anything more than “the hobbit”: a necessary, if inconvenient, part of the infiltration team if they are to retake Erebor.





	1. The Eagle

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I’m tired and decide to get into a fantasy vs. sci-fi argument (“Just saying, if instead of walking through forests and over mountains the LOTR crew had had to hitch hike through space I would be all over that shit”). Also, this is why I will never not have a to-write list too long to ever complete. Clearly this is an AU; however, I tried to stay true to the spirit of The Hobbit in the plot and world creation. There is angst ahead, but I promise a happy ending.

It’s cold in space, cold and dark and silent. And, despite its unarguable vastness, it’s confining. The vessel they are on is so small in the immensity of space that Bilbo can almost feel the hull’s eternal struggle against the pull of the vacuum, like an aging door battered by wind the hull of a space ship creaks sometimes under the assault of its environments and at no point in the fifteen Shire-days since he left the atmosphere, his home, everything he knew, has Bilbo been able to forget the black, emptiness that reaches out for them all. He wraps his arms around his knees, pulling them tightly to his chest, trying not to shiver. This is his grand adventure, he should be enjoying every second.

Then again, they nearly died at the hand of the Wargs on Rhovanion Way Station just under nine hours ago, so perhaps a little homesickness and self-pity isn’t that out of place. He steals a quick glance around the cargo bay. Fili and Kili are whisper-yelling over a deck of cards in the far corner, the general hiss of their fight carrying over the snores of the rest of the company, who are sprawled at odd angles, taking advantage of their brief moment of safety in the belly of the _Eagle_ to rest. Bilbo wishes he could sleep. Maybe if he can see Shire, even in his dreams, he won’t feel quite so much like the black had frozen his soul so deeply it will never thaw again.

Andiun is still three hours out by Bilbo’s chronometer. He runs a finger over the smooth glass and wonders if the Sackville-Baggins had declared him dead and auctioned off everything in Bag End yet. It’s tea time back home. What he wouldn’t give for a steaming cup of tea. Even the teeth blackening tar Burrowes optimistically called tea would cut the chill.

“Accommodations not to your liking, hobbit?”

Thorin’s rich baritone cuts beneath the snores and Kili and Fili’s hissing, and twines around Bilbo, soft, warm, welcome despite the exasperation clear in his words. Bilbo knows it’s foolish, but he was in too deep before he even noticed he was falling. At least no one else seems to have noticed the way his cheeks inevitably pink up whenever Thorin’s heavy, assessing gaze lands on him too long. Except Gandalf, but the wizard is capable of being discreet when it serves him, at least… well, Bilbo is fairly confident Gandalf will keep his mouth shut on this one. Bad enough for Bilbo to struggle against his hopelessly unrequited feelings without an entire company of tactless dwarves the wiser.

“The ship is lovely.” He answers, not turning to look at Thorin, not wanting to see the distaste he’s sure is carved between Thorin’s thick dark eyebrows.

“Which is why you’re sitting alone in a dark cargo hold, because the ship is lovely?”

Bilbo turns at that. Thorin is leaning against the bulkhead, but his entire body is alert, as if he expects the crew of the _Eagle_ to suddenly descend and demand payment in blood for their hospitality. Somehow, even Thorin’s tension is comforting. He is in so much trouble.

“You should try to sleep.” Thorin continues, not waiting for Bilbo to form his thoughts into something coherent enough to speak. “We’re set to reach Andiun in a few standard hours and who knows when we’ll get a chance to rest safely again.”

“You’re not sleeping.” Bilbo observes, and wishes he hadn’t as soon as the words leave his mouth – sounding petulant, like a child trying to justify staying up past bedtime. “I mean, you – I – well…” he stammers and then clamps his mouth shut and wishes he could disappear completely which makes him think of the oddly warm gold ring sitting heavily in the inner pocket of his suit and he loses himself briefly wondering what Thorin would do if the hobbit suddenly evaporated right in front of him. He’d probably thank his luck and get on with his quest. Bilbo shivers, the unwelcome realization adding to the chill.

“You’re cold.” Thorin pushes off the wall and takes two steps towards Bilbo before thinking better of it and awkwardly stopping in the middle of the bay, his heavy mag-boots somehow fitting perfectly into the space between Oin’s head and the patch of floor covered by Gloin’s magnificent beard.

“I’m used to a sun-warmed planet.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Thorin drops his eyes to his broad hands for a moment.

He looks sort of lost, standing in the middle of a heap of sleeping dwarves, a warrior from an ancient time despite the obvious tech of his softly glowing vibroblade. His armour makes him look almost as wide across the shoulders as he is tall. No wonder Gandalf insisted on adding Bilbo to the company. Thorin commands attention wherever he is, even standing frozen halfway through a gesture with eyes that for once don’t scream self-assurance, his mouth half open as if he wants to speak but doesn’t quite know what words to say.

“Could quite nearly commit murder for a cup of tea.” Bilbo says, more to fill the silence than anything. Does tea even exist in space?

Thorin huffs an exasperated breath. “Come.”

The single word reverberates in Bilbo’s brain for a moment before he scrambles to his feet, cursing and limping for a moment on a foot that has gone numb from immobility, and follows Thorin across the bay.

The _Eagle_ really is a lovely ship. For a group of what Bilbo can only call scavengers (though Lorde described them as Salvage Specialists with a look that brooked no disagreement) the crew keeps their ‘rescued’ frigate immaculate. Once the flagship of the Esgarothean fleet, the _Eagle_ was designed for more than her function, she was designed to stun visiting dignitaries into accepting unfavourable treaties and sending them home happy.

Bilbo presses his palm against the rich brown grain of the wood paneling on the hallway. Wood is impractical at best in space. It should crack and twist with the temperature fluctuations of the hull, but this isn’t ordinary wood. Bilbo feels the ring in his pocket grow heavy with sympathetic magic and he draws his hand back quickly as if burnt.

“There are no Wargs aboard the _Eagle_ , hobbit, you can relax a little.” Thorin says, voice warmed by mirth at Bilbo’s expense. He had slowed his steps so they are now walking shoulder to shoulder, so close Thorin’s mantle would have brushed against Bilbo’s shoulder if he had been a bit taller.

Bilbo feels simultaneously buoyed by Thorin’s closeness (pathetic Baggins!) and overwhelmingly small, but somehow, by the time they turn into the mess, he is no longer cold.

“Tea?” Bilbo asks a tall lean woman who looks from her almost impossibly narrow frame as if she had always existed in the low gravity of space. She tilts her head and appraises him with wide set, slate coloured eyes before shrugging pointing to a large burnished steel contraption.

“Spacer Drip, don’t get your hopes up.” Her voice is light and higher pitched than Bilbo expected from someone so tall.

“Uh… thank you.” Bilbo flashes a smile before ducking his head and making a line straight for the machine. He has no idea what Spacer Drip is, but he figures it can’t be too terrible if they serve it on the _Eagle_. Of course, Bilbo has often been wrong about just how bad things could be. Spacer Drip he decides as he watches the greenish sludge slither into a cup, will go on the list just below “joining up with a band of dwarves to reclaim a mountain planet lost three centuries ago.”  

“It that tea then?”

Thorin’s voice is so close to Bilbo’s ear his breath when he spoke sent Bilbo’s curls dancing against his neck. Bilbo nearly spills Spacer Drip all down his front. He sucks in a deep breath, which doesn’t help as Thorin is standing so close, peering suspiciously at the substance in Bilbo’s cup, that his chest brushes against Bilbo’s back on the inhale.

Bilbo freezes.

Which of course is the moment the machine really starts to pour and before Bilbo can recover from the _holyshitholyshitholyshit_ of accidental contact there is scalding Spacer Drip burbling out of the cup and over his hand.

Thorin reaches past Bilbo with both hands shutting off the nozzle with one and taking the cup from Bilbo with the other, effectively trapping Bilbo between his body and the machine.

Bilbo is fairly certain he has stopped breathing, might never breathe again.

“You have to be careful, hobbit.” Thorin’s mouth brushes Bilbo’s ear sending a current of _something_ straight through him to the deck below his bare feet and then as suddenly as he had invaded Bilbos’ space he is gone.

Squeezing his eyes shut and focusing on the stinging pain of his burnt hand, Bilbo draws in three long breaths, wipes his hand on the leg of his suit and then turns. Thorin is standing was ways off, silhouetted against the viewport, Bilbo’s cup of Spacer Drip held out from his body as if he doesn’t even want to risk smelling it.

Bilbo takes the drink from Thorin, careful not to let his fingers brush against Thorin’s too obviously. Even the briefest of contacts sets off that same tingle like an electric current across his skin. It’s unsettling, but not unpleasant. Still, it is nice to wrap his fingers around the warm mug, even if lifting it to his lips is the last thing Bilbo feels like doing, the warmth soothes away the jittery feeling of being at once too big and too small that he gets standing this close to Thorin in front of the giant view port with nothing but a sheet of polymer between them and the vacuum.

“You really going to drink that?” Thorin asks

“It would be rather rude not to at least try it.” Bilbo says, quite reasonably he thinks.

Thorin lets out a bark of laughter before smothering it under his usual stoic façade. “You’re braver than I have given you credit for, hobbit.”

Bilbo raises the glass to his lips and regrets it immediately. Space Drip tastes like someone mixed passion fruit with pickled herring and then tried to cover their mistake with some kind of pot stilled alcohol. He chokes down the mouthful because it would be entirely too rude to spit it out, but he can’t stop the grimace on his face, nor the shudder that twists his whole body as if to shake the vile taste from his tongue.

“So, not tea?” Thorin’s eyes are practically dancing with supressed laughter.

Bilbo glares at him. “Not. Tea.” He confirms, almost unconsciously stretching his hand out in front of him until he can no longer smell it.

Thorin’s eyes dart down to the cup and his brow creases. “You hand,” is all he says by way of explanation as he takes hold of Bilbo’s wrist and pulls it closer to him.

“It’s fine.” Bilbo says quickly, though it’s an obvious lie. His skin is shiny and red where the drink bubbled over onto it and he knows there’s a blister formed already along the fleshy part of his hand between his thumb and index finger.

“You’re hurt.” Thorin says almost sharply. He plucks the Spacer Drip from Bilbo’s hand and sets it down on the nearest mess table before returning the whole of his attention to Bilbo’s hand, still trapped within his own.

Bilbo barely dares breathe as Thorin turns his hand, letting the ambient light from the mess hall play across Bilbo’s skin as he assesses the damage. He runs a single finger over Bilbo’s skin, so light it nearly tickles and Bilbo lets out a shaky breath.

“It’s just a burn.” He exhales more than says. His voice is a hoarse whisper past the lump in his throat. His eyes track the movement of Thorin’s fingers as they trace over every inch of Bilbo’s hand, and he’s almost afraid to look up to see if Thorin is as transfixed as he.

Thorin’s grip changes and he raises Bilbo’s hand close to his face. “Burns can be tricky,” he says his eyes locking with Bilbo’s. Suddenly the room feels hot and Bilbo is torn between wanting to run away and wanting to freeze this moment, the feeling of Thorin’s skin on his skin, Thorin’s breath skating over his knuckles, Thorins lips… Thorin’s lips pressing with aching gentleness to the worst of the burn.

Bilbo’s eyes flutter shut. He’s not sure if he’s breathing, if he needs to breathe, if there is even oxygen left to be breathed. It’s as if nothing exists but the place where Thorin’s lips, and then his tongue – lightening quick, warm and wet – are tracing a line along Bilbo’s hand.  

A loud clatter makes Bilbo jump. Reflexively he pulls his hand away from Thorin as he turns to identify the source of the noise. When he turns back Thorin is already halfway down the corridor, striding in the opposite direction of the bay where his kin sleep on oblivious to the fact that Bilbo’s world has been turned so sharply he no longer knows which way is up.

The impossibly slender woman winces an obvious apology at him over her attempts to clean up the food and drink she had scattered across the deck when her tray slipped from her grasp.

“Let me help you.” Bilbo tears his eyes away from Thorin’s retreating back and kneeling to pick up a tin cup resting near his feet. Together, not bothering to talk, they clean up the mess, dumping the refuse into the compactor before parting with nothing more than a wave.

By the time Bilbo returns to the bay he expects Thorin to be there. The dwarves who had slept were beginning to gather themselves. They will be another few hours before planetfall, but all are eager to get on with their quest and the noise level in the bay rises continuously as the dwarves stretch out the kinks of sleep and don their full battle armour in preparation.

Bilbo has no preparations to make and wishes now more than ever that he had been able to sleep. His mind is a riot of confusing thoughts and feelings. Thorin kissed him, sort of... No, it was definitely a kiss. Thorin's lips had mapped the skin of his hand from the base of his thumb all the way up to the second knuckle of his index finger and if they hadn't been interrupted... But they had and the minute they were Thorin had all but run. So it was a kiss, but for all Bilbo knows it was a bizarre dwarven healing ritual. Thorin certainly doesn't seem to want to continue where he left off. Bilbo does a quick survey of the bay, Thorin has not returned. He looks down at his hands, startled for a moment at the brownish discolouration covering his burned hand until he remembers how it was burned and how he'd only wiped it rather than seeking out water to clean it. He recalls the expression in Thorin's eyes after Bilbo had only barely managed to choke down one swallow. He wonders at Thorin's willingness to press his lips to the taste that surely clung to his skin, to flick his tongue over the burn but also its foul flavoured cause. And then his heart sinks in his chest.  

Spacers drip tasted awful to Bilbo, used to herbaceous tea and fresh ripe produce, but to a dwarf used to mead and pot still and food that came prepackaged in little tubes...? 

Bilbo bites back a laugh - a sob? - and let his head slam back against the bulkhead at his back just hard enough to sting. He is an idiot. And worst of all, Thorin knows. He has to know. Why else would Bilbo have practically swooned at a simple touch of tongue to flesh? He wonders if anyone would really miss him if he just faded into invisibility right now. He could sneak off at first landing and go life in the woods, far away from Thorin Oakenshield's dangerous, delicious presence. The Sackville-Baggins will probably throw a party. The dwarves will find another hobbit and Bilbo will... go nowhere because even with the slow burn of unrequited attraction and the creeping cold of homesickness turning him inside out this is the most exciting thing that has ever happened and he can't just give up now. 

 


	2. Andiun

Planetfall is, if this is even possible, more terrifying than the first launch from Shire. The _Eagle_ 's shuttle creaks in protest as the sudden friction of atmosphere pulls against its hull. Bilbo clenched his hands into tight fists and wills himself not to cry out when the shuttle rocks violently back and forth. A warm hand wraps around his and Bilbo looks up at Thorin, shock briefly banishing his fear before a sustained grating sound on the hull brings it back. Thorin isn't looking at Bilbo. His clear blue eyes are fixed forward. If it weren't for the firm, warm hold of his hand closed of Bilbo's fist it would be easy to think he didn't even notice the hobbit was there.

As suddenly as it began, the assault on the hull ceases. The sudden smoothing of motion feels like a stop and Bilbo jolts slightly in his seat, realizing only after its too late to stop that he has wrapped his fingers around Thorin's hand in a death grip. Thorin doesn't pull away, just tightens his own hold, entwining their fingers, his eyes never once leaving the front view screen as they begin their controlled descent to the landing pad.

Bilbo eventually manages to follow suit, just in time to see a thick, dark forest growing up wild on three sides of the concrete landing pad. So this is Andiun. Blibo swallows a sudden lump of horror. Space was terrifying and somehow Bilbo had thought he would feel better, less homesick, less afraid, or at least warmer, when they were panetside, but the woods are dark and alien with sharp tops and intertwining branches that seem from this distance to block all light, and Bilbo thinks he'd rather be back on the Eagle with its strange magic wooden panels and the ever present threat of the vacuum.

Andiun is nothing like Shire. Bilbo's home planet is green and soft and bright. Even in the winter months when the green fields and friendly woods are stripped of their greenery and more often than not covered in a thick blanket of snow the planet warms and welcomes. Andiun welcomes no one. At least no hobbit. Perhaps, Bilbo thinks, there are creatures here who the planet nurtures in the dark. He could believe Wargs came from such a place, but surely they wouldn't have fled the Wargs on Rhovanion just to come to their home planet.

"The Elven planet," Bofur's awed tones don't help Bilbo's desire to turn the shuttle around and fly all the way back to his warm hearth at Bag End. "Wild. They say the forest speaks to the elves. Woe betide anyone who gets lost in Mirkwood."

Thorin didn't even try to hid the disdain in his voice "Fairy tales. Nothing more."

"Says the man who is on an epic quest to take his home back from dragons." Bilbo mutters half under his breath.

"We don't actually _know_ if the 'dragons' are actually _dragons_." Dori pipes up from  his place on Bilbo's other side.

"Oh excellent. Cheers, Dori, that's very comforting."

"They could have been anything." Dori continues, "The accounts are sketchy at best. For all we know Thrain got sick of living inside a mountain and invented the dragons as a way to protect his gold while he and his clan traipsed across the galaxy."

"We have never in our history been quite that lucky, Dori. Likely there's at least one fire breathing creature waiting for us down there." Balin claps Bilbo on the shoulder in what was probably supposed to be a comforting gesture.

"Right, let’s just concentrate on the Elven forest of doom for now shall we?"

"The hobbit is right," Thorin says, gently extracting his hand from Bilbo's as the shuttle set down with a final jolt. "We will need our wits about us to get through the wood before nightfall." 

The shuttle doors released with the hiss of compressed gas and Bilbo’s ears feel stuffed with cotton wool as the pressure suddenly shifted around him. He swallows and then swallows again before his ears normalize with an almost painful pop. The planet’s air is thick with humidity. The smell of loam and decay is almost heavy enough to taste when he draws his first full breath. He’s the second one off the shuttle and it’s not until he’s a few meters away from the shuttle that he realizes the feeling like it’s difficult to lift his foot each step isn’t just a side effect of the long bumpy shuttle ride. Gravity is different here. Heavier than the ship he expected. He had managed to nearly grow accustomed to feeling too light, but now gravity presses and pulls at him, as if the planet wishes to pull him directly into its core. He half turns to watch the dwarves as they unpack the cargo hold. Except Thorin who never seems to be phased by anything, they too seems to feel the intensity of the gravity. Bumbur leans against the side of the shuttle and presses a hand over his heaving chest and even Kili and Fili look winded from the effort of unloading their gear and repacking it into satchels for the whole party.

He was wrong on the descent, thinking the planet didn’t want them here. Standing on the landing pad, his eyes constantly drawn to the dark, jagged line of the forest, Bilbo thinks the planet has been lying in wait for them, and now that they’re here he can practically hear the predatory rumble of its anticipation.

Thorin makes sure everyone is equipped with PNIs (Planetary Nav Interfaces) with the coordinates for the House of Beorn programmed in. They don’t plan to separate, but Mirkwood is a strange place and they are taking no unnecessary risks. Bilbo finds himself at Thorin’s side as Dwalin leads the company off the landing pad and towards the foreboding tree line.

“Good to have your feet on soil again?”

Bilbo really needs to stop being startled whenever Thorin opens his mouth. All this racing can’t be good for his heart.   “This place feels…” he trails off.

“Wrong.” Thorin supplies.

“Like the land itself is hungry.” Bilbo adds.

“Hungry?” Thorin’s head turns and he gives Bilbo a bemused look. “What do you mean?”

Bilbo digs his toe into the dirt. It gives way easily, too easily. “Can a planet be alive?”

Thorin stares at where Bilbo’s toes disappear into the dark brown soil. When he looks up his eyes hold Bilbo’s for a long moment before he speaks, his voice low, for Bilbo’s ears only. “The elves of Mirkwood are rumoured to have old magics, drawn from the enchanted earth of Mirkwood.”

“Like Gandalf?”

Thorin’s lips quirk in an almost smile. “Less party tricks, I believe, but dwarves have no affinity for magic. I’m afraid I know little else.” He looks at the almost blackness of the forest, “We will be careful.”

Somehow, Bilbo isn’t comforted.

“Come, hobbit, we are falling behind.” Thorin claps a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and squeezes once before releasing it and striding after the company.

Bilbo stands still for a moment, his eyes on Thorin’s back, but his ears fixated on the sound of the shuttle’s engines revving up for its return to the Eagle. Their only way off the planet once it leaves is through the forest. Bilbo sucks in a breath, hikes up his pack, and forces his feet to follow the dwarves.

\---

They are nearly an hour into the woods when the first spider appears. It is nearly as tall as Bilbo and before he even has time to properly panic, Thorin’s blade is zinging through the air, an arc of ultraviolet light, and severing the eight legged monster in two. The rest of the dwarves pull their weapons and form a tight circle. Thorin uses one hand to bodily shove Bilbo into the center with a growl of  “Stay here. We don’t need you injured on top of everything.”

Kili gets a second sider in the middle of its eyes with a modified arrow which explodes a few seconds after impact, sending spider ichor spraying through the air. A gooey mass of ex-spider hits the silvery bark of a nearby tree and Bilbo watches in mute horror as the tree seems to drink it in. He’s rooted to the spot, brain scrambling to find an explanation that wasn’t entirely horrible. He barely notices the dwarves moving as a unit towards three more spiders converging from the other side until he’s completely vulnerable and a fourth spider, smaller than the others but still possessing a pair of fangs long enough to kill Bilbo easily, is scuttling towards him. It’s reflex not conscious thought when he thrusts his finger into the ring.

The world shifts into an alternate spectrum of colour, the spider still came at him, but when Bilbo dodged to the side and thrust his dagger into its side it didn’t flinch until the blade sunk home. Its unholy shriek of pain cut through the strange buzzing in his ears, part the ring, part the panic. Bilbo easily dodged away when the spider blindly struck at where he had been standing moments before and with two more thrusts of the dagger it curled in on itself, twitching, and then lay still.

The dwarves are cutting down the last of their spiders with brutal efficiency. None seem to have noticed that Bilbo disappeared from sight. He pockets the ring and looks down at the spider dead at his feet. When he looks back up all he can see is Thorin’s eyes boring into him.

He looks _furious_. He’s striding forward, stepping right over the corpse of the last spider, which is already sinking into the hungry earth.

Bilbo’s hand goes to the ring but he stops himself just shy of slipping it on. If he vanishes now he’ll have to explain about the ring, about how he found it and used it and someone might try and take it and that _cannot_ happen. The ring is _his._ So he runs one finger along the edge of the ring as if it might give him protection against the enraged dwarf.

“I should have _known_ you had a death wish,” Thorin’s voice is a low growl. “What part of ‘stay within the company of warriors was so difficult, Hobbit?”

Bilbo opens his mouth to say… nothing. There’s nothing he can say without giving up his secret.

Not that it matters. Thorin has closed the distance between them completely, is looming over Bilbo, so close his hair brushes against Bilbo’s chest when he tilts his head down, all barely contained strength and laser sharp eyes boring into Bilbo with a cold fury that should freeze him where he stands. “Did you think we would thank you for throwing yourself into the fray and getting yourself killed?”

“That would have put a spanner in the mission, wouldn’t it?” The words are out of Bilbo’s mouth before he can think better of them.

They both stop, stand there for a minute, matched glare for glare, and then Bilbo breaks away, letting out a harsh puff of air and fixing his eyes on the ground where Thorin’s boots bracket his bare feet, so close he thinks it’s a miracle that Thorin didn’t step right on him.

“Leave off the lad, Thorin,” Balin calls from where the rest of the company have clustered together. “He killed that spider and there’s not a scratch on him. Looks like our burglar is more than meets the eye.”

Thorin closes his eyes. For a moment he’s completely still, not even breathing, and then the tension releases from his body and he sways more than steps back. “Next time do as you’re told.” He murmurs as he turns back to his kin.

Bilbo allows himself to be swept up in the middle of the company when they move forward again. Thorin is at the front, slashing through the grasping tendrils of undergrowth with his vibroblade, filling the air with the scent of ozone and something almost like freshly mown hay. Balin and Dwalin follow right behind, occasionally trying to engage him in conversation. The rest of the company have formed a sort of pack around Bilbo. Kili and Fili walk at either side, chatting animatedly about the battle.

They try to engage Bilbo but his heart isn’t in it. He should be happy, knowing that the company now sees him as something more than a tool for infiltration. He bested a spider almost his height with just a tiny dagger (and a magic ring but none but him knew about that). Thorin should have been…   Bilbo didn’t know actually what he had expected, but the rage and disappointment pouring from Thorin had triggered a sick churning in Bilbo’s gut that feels a lot like guilt. Although why he should be the one to feel guilty just because Thorin thinks he’s incapable even of defending himself, Bilbo can’t quite explain. But irrational or not, the feeling is there and no amount of light conversation with Thorin’s cousins can shake it loose.

\---

When night begins to fall they are still in Mirkwood. They happen upon a clearing, the only clearing they’ve seen all day, just as the sun has touched the horizon lighting up the slivers of sky visible through the trees a riot of oranges and pinks. The timing is too perfect. It sets every nerve in Bilbo’s body on edge.

“We can’t stay here.” He says to Bofur when he realizes that everyone has come to a halt and begun removing their satchels. “It’s too dangerous.”

Bofur laughs. “Don’t worry, Bilbo. We’ve all seen how quick you can be with that dagger. We’ll all be safe enough with a few on watch.”

“No, I don’t think we will.” Bilbo insists, but Bofur had already moved off to help Nori construct a small fire pit.

Bilbo looks around, seeking anyone who looks even marginally uncertain about laying down on the floor of a forest that had essentially eaten the corpses of the spiders they killed earlier. Bombur is sprawled against a tree, already asleep as far as Bilbo can tell, and the rest of the company is pulling out bedrolls or setting up to cook the evening meal. Even Thorin appears relaxed, joking with Kili as they set up their pallets.

Bilbo has never felt this unseen, not even when he is literally invisible. He wants to scream at them, inspire a panic or at least a very reasonable level of concern about slipping off into dreams in the embrace of an enchanted forest powered by who knows what. Instead he stands exactly where they left him, refusing even to remove his pack.

As protests go, it’s not very effective. It isn’t until Bofur and Fili are handing out steaming packets of protein that anyone even seems to notice Bilbo hasn’t joined them around the small fire.

Bofur hands a packet to Thorin and nods in Bilbo’s direction before turning to swat Gloin’s hands away from a second packet with a “hands off! That one’s for Bombur.”

Bilbo almost loses his resolve in the time it takes Thorin to reach him with his dinner held in one hand. “You’ll want to set up your bedroll before full darkness hits, hobbit.”

“I will not be sleeping here, thank you.”

Thorin visibly grinds his teeth together. “Sleeping rough not for the likes of you?”

“That’s not—” But Bilbo’s protest against the aspersion of snobbery is cut off by a loud shout.

Across the clearing, where Bombur was sleeping peacefully against the trunk of a tree there is a great struggle going on. It’s hard to tell from where they stand, but it looks to Bilbo as if somehow Bombur is stuck to the tree. Dwalin and Bifur each have one of Bombur’s arms grasped tightly in their hands and are pulling him while Bombur screams a high-pitched blend of fear and pain.

Thorin runs towards them, releasing his sword from its sheath as he moves, though what exactly he plans to do with the weapon Bilbo isn’t sure until he sees it come down in an elegant, ultraviolet arc mere millimetres from  Bombur’s skull and then Dwalin, Bifur and Bombur are hurtling away from the tree and landing in an undignified heap.

Bilbo doesn’t look at them, however. Instead he is transfixed by the trunk of the tree which appears to have grown a thick tuft of red hair, or, probably more accurately, taken a bite of Bombur’s while he slumbered. It’s confirmation of everything Bilbo has been afraid of since he first touched his bare feet to the greedy soil, but he can tell from the sudden scramble among the dwarves to get as far from the tree line as possible that no one else had noticed until right this moment.

“We can’t stay here.” Dwalin says in a surprisingly steady voice. He looks to Thorin and the two seem to have an entire conversation just using their eyes before Thorin nods.

“Pack up camp, we’ll not rest here.” Thorin’s commanding voice seems to settle the dwarves and they begin to roll up bedrolls and gather cooking materials. When everything is packed they take the time to create torches, lighting them in the campfire to provide light and a modicum of protection from whatever dangers lurk in Mirkwood after dark.

Only Thorin does not take a torch. Instead he palms his vibrosword, its glow lighting his path as he leads the dwarves on into the woods. They’re moving more slowly now than in daylight, keeping in a close pack with Bilbo pushed towards the front until he is right behind Thorin and then walking right at Thorin’s side.

“You knew.”

It’s not quite an accusation but Bilbo still flinches. “I didn’t _know_.”

“You told me before we even entered the woods that they were hungry.” Thorin cut through a low hanging branch with a vicious slash. “We can’t keep going forever.”

“Are we close?”

Thorin pulled out his PNI and scanned it quickly before shoving it back into his pack. “Another day at least.”

Bilbo lets this information sink in. Thorin is right, they need to rest and eat if they are going to make it all the way through the woods. “Maybe in daylight, in shifts?” He suggests. Day won’t mean the forest wants them any less, but at least the watch will have an easier time seeing dangers when not cloaked in the blackest night Bilbo has ever seen.

“You’ve got a decent head on your shoulders.”

Thorin’s approval is a warm balm. Though they lapse into silence after that, the sick guilty feeling he had after using his ring to kill the spider melts away and Bilbo feels almost content.

The company pushes on until daybreak and then takes shifts with half the company sleeping at a time. Nothing supernatural or especially dangerous happens although this schedule means most of their travelling is done in the darkness and they very nearly get lost twice in the two days it takes them to reach the other side of Mirkwood.

When he steps out of the treeline and his feet hit a rocky, moss covered span of earth that feels _right_ , natural, like it isn’t a lurking malevolence, Bilbo thinks he might kiss the ground. He collapses in an undignified heap and then rolls onto his back and grins like a fool at the cloudy sky overhead.

Thorin looks down at him, amusement clear in the twitching at one corner of his mouth, as if he’s fighting with everything he has not the smile outright. “I take it we have escaped the reach of the wood’s magic?”

He doesn’t even wait for Bilbo’s confirmation before ordering the dwarves to set up camp and seek out water. The water they had brought with them ran out hours ago but no one was willing to drink anything from Mirkwood unless it became absolutely necessary.

Bilbo eventually rose and joined in the business of setting up camp and preparing a stew of preserved meats and vegetables to go along with the last of their hardtack. If the PNI was right they would reach the House of Beorn in another six hours. For now they were safe and Bilbo felt like breaking into a song or dance. He hadn’t felt this light since he was a boy.

He didn’t dance or sing, of course, but he did help himself to a second bowl of stew and he laughed freely at every joke and clapped enthusiastically when Dwalin sang an old Dwarvish lullaby, and when the last mote of light left the sky, Bilbo snuggle into his bedroll and fell into a dreamless slumber with a smile on his lips.  


	3. House of Beorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is having a safe and happy holiday season!

The Vales remind Bilbo just enough of home to make him joyful and melancholy by turns as they make their final day’s journey to the House of Beorn. Though the area on the other side of Mirkwood appeared flat when they first emerged, they don’t have to walk long before it is clear the land was made up of gently rolling grass covered slopes and deep, tree-lined river valleys. The first valley sends a wave of nerves through the company, who are not yet nearly recovered enough to pass through a forest without remembering Bombur’s lucky escape. But they need not have feared. The forest in the valley holds no malevolent magic, only bright green birds that screech warnings from the treetops, and some type of grey, furry creature that they can never quite catch a complete glimpse of. The water at the bottom runs clear and pure and they drink their fill before ascending the other side. Everyone’s spirits are light and their little band is wrapped in laughter for most of the day. For the first time since the transport left Shire’s atmosphere, Bilbo can say without qualification he’s glad he came.

They deliberately set a course that avoids Esgaroth, which makes the journey longer by nearly half a day, but they can’t afford to run into anyone unfriendly until they’ve replenished their supplies and given the ship they arrived on was formerly of the Esgarothean fleet, they are almost certain to find enemies among the city’s populace. They can see the city looming to the East for most of the afternoon, sharp and crystalline against the blue sky. It sends a shiver of discomfort down Blbo’s back. There is nothing like it on Shire.

On Shire, homes and shops sprawl just beneath the rolling green hills or perch among the boughs of the forest, nature’s beauty interrupted only by doors and winding roads. Despite, or perhaps because of the affinity for technology, hobbits have never abandoned the habitats their ancestors established thousands of years ago, long before the first long-range communicator was even dreamed of.  Now, with programmers in every warren and geothermal power igniting a global network, there was no need to crowd together in cities.

Bilbo knows of cities, of course. He has seen images on the net, heard stories from those hobbits who travelled to gather the raw material which fuelled the technological empire on Shire, but he had never dreamed _he_ would set foot in one. And for his first to be Esgaroth… well, that was a level of new all its own.

The Esgarotheans once controlled the cosmos, or so the legends said. Certainly they were the first known society to achieve space travel. Though their early fleet was primitive, held together more with magic than any true technological prowess, the fact was that they were the first to land upon the dwarves on Erebor, or the hobbits on Shire, and with those contacts they had won themselves a place in the history books and a hunger for conquest. Their empire spread quickly, too quickly. Its collapse, nearly four hundred years before Bilbo was born, was sudden and violent, but somehow not surprising to anyone. The survivors retreated to Anduin, building in place of an empire a massive city on the most magic rich planet in the galaxy. Many believe the Esgarotheans were simply biding their time, building wealth and power until they could again rule over all.

Beorn, Gandalf assured them, was a friend. Human, but not of Esgaroth (though there were many in the galaxy for whom this distinction was suspect at the best of times). The House of Beorn had held its independence despite being only kilometers from the boundaries of Esgaroth for over a century. The tiny city-state was known for its preternatural connection to all living things on Anduin. Having spent several days on the planet and sampled its dubious hospitality, Bilbo wasn’t particularly comforted by that knowledge.

When they break at another river crossing to rest, Bilbo sinks his feet into the cool water a little downstream from where the dwarves are clustered, sharing the last portion of protein paste. He leans back against a sun warmed stone and closes his eyes. There’s a pair of birds chittering overhead and for a moment he is able to forget where he is. He lets out a contented sigh.

“Nearly there.”

Thorin’s rumble is so close Bilbo starts upright. The dwarf chuckles and sinks down to share Bilbo’s rock. So close they’re nearly touching.

“Have you eaten?” Thorin holds out a tin mug full of something thick and steaming.

Bilbo accepts the mug, trying not to flush when their fingers brush and he’s swamped with a sudden image of the mess hall on the Eagle, Thorin’s fingers… his lips… against Bilbo’s hand. “Th-thank you.” He stammers.

“It’s not tea.” Thorin sounds almost apologetic.

Bilbo smiles. “I think I’m learning not to set my hopes too high on that one.”

Thorin smiles back, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Bilbo’s traitorous heart flips in his chest. He’s seen Thorin smile, but he’s never been on the receiving end of those merrily crinkled blue eyes, the brief flash of surprisingly white teeth. He has to remind himself to breathe.   

“I can’t speak for Oin’s cooking, but it’s much better hot.”

Bilbo nods mutely and raises the mug to his lips. It smells spicy, though it looks like watered down protein. It hits his tongue and he immediately wishes he didn’t have taste buds. Perhaps he will have to take up drinking ale at the pace of Bombur. Perhaps that is the secret to dwarven cuisine. He forces the mouthful down, but he can’t repress the shudder that goes with it.

“I’m sorry,” he half-coughs, pressing the mug back into Thorin’s hands, “that might be worse than spacer drip to be honest.”

Thorin’s eyes seem to drill into Bilbo’s. “True,” He says slowly, thoughtfully, “that had something this is lacking.” His tongue darts out and Bilbo’s eyes track it as it runs over Thorin’s bottom lip.

Bilbo has forgotten to breathe again. He can feel the phantom of that tongue on his hand. The blisters have dried and healed, the pain forgotten already, but the feeling of Thorin’s mouth is branded into his memory and into the very cells of his skin.

The spell is broken when Thorin raises the mug to his lips and drains its content in a single gulp. “Delicious.”

“Is it a dwarf thing?” Bilbo asks, feeling inexplicably bold.

Thorin tilts his head in a silent question.

“The lack of taste buds.” Bilbo clarifies.

It earns him a rumbling laugh and a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let them hear you say that, hobbit.”

Bilbo can’t help but join Thorin’s laughter. He’s never been as tired in his entire life as he is now, despite the heavy sleep when they first collapsed on the Vale. He feels like he’s teetering on the edge, the slightest breeze could flip him over into mirth or madness.

Thorin leans into Bilbo, their bodies touching all down the side and Bilbo’s laughter takes on a slightly manic edge. He can feel the tremble of Thorin’s laughter reverberating against him and the dwarf hotter than the sun warmed rock behind them.

He’s almost relieved when Balin calls down to them and they’re climbing to their feet to rejoin the company, although the air around him feels colder now. At least with Thorin safety away in a hushed discussion with Balin, Bilbo doesn’t have to worry he will do something stupid like resting his head against Thorin’s shoulder, or pressing his lips to the tender, pale skin on his neck.

_Get it together Baggins!_ He tells himself sharply, rucking up his pack and falling in beside Bofur to hike to the top of the ravine. Thorin is the leader of the company, he needs Bilbo’s skills and his size, that’s all it is, and Bilbo really needs to get that through his head before the casual touches and occasional smiles drive him insane.

\---

Beorn himself greets them at the gates of the House. He is a great man, tall and broad and bushy in a way that makes him almost look like a massively oversized dwarf rather than a human. Bilbo fights the instinctual desire to half hide behind Bombur when Beorn booms his welcome and starts aggressively shaking everyone’s hands.

“Welcome! Welcome!” He says in a voice that’s higher pitched than one would assume based on his burly, rugged appearance. He squeezes Bilbo’s hand so hard something pops, grinning with both rows of teeth and a merry twinkle in his dark eyes.

“Gandalf sent word, he’s been delayed. But I have rooms ready and the cooks are working up a feast to celebrate your arrival.” Beorn placed a hand on Thorin’s shoulder and steered him towards a pair of intricately carved wooden doors. “Now we’re a big place, but even we cannot give every man his own room…”

Bilbo tunes out the rest of Beorn’s running commentary. Now that they’re here his exhaustion is like a millstone around his neck. He focuses on each step: lift foot, lurch forward, place foot, repeat, don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t get lost, nearly there. When Beorn opens a small door and Bombur nudges Bilbo towards it, he realizes he’s missed the entire tour. He will probably regret it later, but for now he mutters a thank you and nearly collapses on the narrow cot, asleep before the rest of the company have even found their rooms.

  Bilbo sleeps through the rest of the day and most of the night. It is dark when he wakes, the morning light only just starting to light up the horizon. His mouth feels gritty with sleep and his stomach is protesting the many hours since his last meal, but the small room is quiet and Bilbo can feel his courage and sense of adventure returning as he slowly stretches before digging out a spare suit from his pack. He finds a small bathroom just outside his room and quickly cleans himself up as much as possible. His suit will need to be cleaned, or burned probably given how much spider ichor is caked in the seams, but when he has on a fresh one and has splashed water over his head, Bilbo feels almost like himself.

If only he could get a cup of tea.

He sits on the edge if his cot for a long moment, feeling like a child up before sunrise, afraid to stir lest he wake up his sleeping parents. But eventually the grumbling of his stomach outweighs the fear of being a bother and he (cautiously) opens the door and steps (softly) into the long corridor. Surely on a lush planet like Andiun they must have something resembling what Bilbo knows as tea. He would be happy even to boil some fresh herbs in water, just to get that light herbaceous scent.

Bilbo retraces as best he can the path Beorn took the night before when he was showing them the main parts of his palatial home until the yeasty smell of freshly baking bread pulled him down a short hallway he didn’t recognize and to a large, unadorned door.

He can hear two voices on the other side, one high and lilting, the other so deep it sounds more like rumbling thunder than speech. Their lively conversation was punctuated by the banging of pans and the slamming of doors – clear signs that Bilbo has found the kitchens. But the voices make him nervous. Other than the dwarves and Gandalf, Bilbo’s social interactions up to this point can be neatly divided into two categories: beings who were trying to kill him, and hobbits. He did business with humans and even the occasional elf, but business was done over the network, it was almost unheard of for clients to come personally to Shire to acquire the hobbits’ services. Except for wanderers like Gandalf, who was enough of an oddity in every other way to walk about Shire with little comment from the locals when he arrived on the doorsteps of an artisan or hacker to request a commission in person.

“If they’ve locked the door you can always knock.” Beron’s voice sets Bilbo’s heart racing, though it is filled with warm amusement rather than judgement or exasperation. “We have some lovely tea, not quite the quality your Shire exports, mind, but it’s a sight better than anything else I had in my sixty three years.”

“That would be lovely, thanks.” Bilbo manages after three seconds too long spent gaping at Beorn like a fish out of water.

“Young Thorin mentioned you were a mite homesick and thought the tea would help.”

Bilbo can’t respond. His mind is churning in circles trying to reconcile the idea of Thorin specifically speaking with Beorn about Bilbo.

“He’s one of the good ones.” Beorn continues, blithely unaware of Bilbo’s confusion. He reaches past Bilbo and opens the kitchen door, still speaking. “I’ve never much cared for dwarves. Never seen one who wasn’t a cheap bastard intent on swindling me out of every good thing I own. ‘Course everyone knows they had their planet stolen and have had a rough time of it since, not being particularly good at sharing, or living quietly on some agrarian planet. You don’t get dwarves on Shire, do you?”

Bilbo opens his mouth to reply but Beorn clearly didn’t actually want or need an answer.

“You’d think the people of the mountain and the people from under the hill would be bosom friends – and you’re here with Thorin’s company so maybe they are – but I’ve never met a dwarf who was good with technology. It’s like magic all over again. Never was there such a simple group of people with such a bullheadedly simple view of how life should be.”

Bilbo sits at a long table and accepts the cup of steaming liquid a tall elf in an apron presses into his hands. He takes a drink immediately, happy to have an excuse not to respond to Beorn’s broad and mostly unflattering picture of the dwarves. Not that Bilbo himself hasn’t shared some of Beorn’s thoughts before, but now that he’s spent nearly two weeks surrounded by Thorin and the company, Bilbo knows there’s much more to dwarves than he had ever considered. For every strange quirk which made Bilbo long for home there was another side which made Bilbo feel he could never expect to live up to the industriousness and loyalty of his dwarven comrades.

“They’re not all that bad.” The elf interjects. “And don’t believe Lord Beorn either. He likes best to wax poetic on the topics he knows least.”

Beorn laughs at that and settles across from Bilbo with his own mug of tea – looking tiny between his broad hands. “Dwarves are better as a race than I give them credit, for sure. But Thorin is still among the best. Have you seen that sword of his in action? I didn’t think I would see a dwarf with a weapon like that if I lived to be 200.”

“It’s a vibroblade, isn’t it?” Bilbo asks. He knows Thorin is the only one in the party who favours the flashy yet deadly weapon, but he had never considered why that might be.

“Of a sort. It’s not one of yours though. His sword is a product of Andiun, of the elves to be precise. It was once an elven blade of mythril and carved with intricate elven runes, but it’s been heavily augmented since I first acquired it for him. Now he’s had it inlaid with thousands of enchanted crystals so it looks in action like a standard vibroblade but it’s specifically attuned to draconic magic.”

“He had it made to slay the dragons on Erebor.”

“Just so.” Boern drains the rest of his tea. “Makes one wonder what he knows about the planet that the rest of us don’t.”

Bilbo wants to ask more questions but Beorn pushes to his feet and wishes Bilbo a good day, leaving Bilbo alone with a truly adequate cup of tea and a million questions about dragons and Erebor and why it was so strange for a dwarf to wield a magical weapon.

“Ah, you found the kitchen.” Thorin’s voice is gruff, as if his vocal chords haven’t quite woken with the rest of him. “Good. You’ll need your strength for today.”

“Oh?”

“Since you’ve insisted on taking part in our battles, you need to be properly equipped and trained. That tiny dagger and a space suit won’t last you long against a serious foe.”

“I did alright against the spider.” Bilbo reminds him, feeling a little hurt that Thorin can dismiss his demonstrable battle prowess so easily.

“You did, but you could just as easily have been killed.”

“And then you would have to find yourself another burglar, and what an inconvenience that would be.”

Thorin sighs. “Is it impossible for you to accept that I—we would rather not have you die because of who we know you to be and not simply your ability to fit into a small space?”

_Yes._ Bilbo’s brain supplies helpfully. “Not impossible.” He concedes out loud – because that is the least Thorin will accept not because Bilbo dares to really believe Thorin wants him around for him rather than his racial affinity for infiltration and technology.

“Good. Eat something and then come find us in the training circle in the courtyard. Any of the guards will be able to point the way if you get lost.”

For the second time that cup of tea, Bilbo was left sitting in the kitchen with more questions than answers and a distinct sense he was missing something obvious.


End file.
